


like the sweet morning dew

by casphardts



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: 60s AU, Alternate Universe, Fluff, Hippie AU, Implied Drug Use, M/M, honestly most of the characters are just mentioned i'm not gonna lie to you, it's soft I promise, mentions of alcohol use, no beta we die like Glenn, side Annette/Mercedes, they live in a vw camper
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-01-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:08:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22154560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/casphardts/pseuds/casphardts
Summary: when linhardt wakes, it's with daisies tangled in his hair, and caspar asleep on his chest.-trashy 60s hippies au inspired by casphardt week discord's collective weed!linhardt headcanon. thank u casphardt server. this one's for u.
Relationships: Caspar von Bergliez/Linhardt von Hevring
Comments: 6
Kudos: 37





	like the sweet morning dew

When Linhardt wakes, it’s with wilted daisies tangled in his hair, and Caspar asleep on his chest.  
Caspar kicks in his sleep, so the sheets are crumpled into a ball, thrown off to one side. It can only be a little after sunrise judging by the light leaking through the drapes on the windows. It’s cold, and so, moving as little as possible so as to not disturb his lover’s rest, Linhardt untangles the comforter, and drags it to cover them both. Caspar noses into his neck, and he takes that as a thank you, and closes his eyes to get a little more of a lie in before the other man wakes. 

He opens his eyes next to the flowers gone, and Caspar gone too, but that’s not a worry - he’s never far away. When he rolls over and sits up, the awning is up, and his boyfriend is outside, just beyond his reach, poking at a fire. Beside him are two mugs of what looks like coffee, steaming, not long made, and with a sleepy whine and grabbing hands, Linhardt reaches out. “Mine?”  
The smile Caspar breaks into when he turns at the sound just might be enough to stop Lin’s heart. “Yours! You’re up!”  
“Almost up. Coffee first.” Linhardt pouts, and maybe it’s just because he knows Caspar can’t resist his pouting. He’s rewarded with his boyfriend scrambling up onto his knees, staining them green in the dewy grass as he crawls over and deposits the warm cup into his waiting hands. It’s almost exactly right, if a little hot, sweet and strong and always exactly what he needs. 

Caspar is good at knowing exactly what he needs. 

“Where did you put my daisies?” he asks, gazing into the dark surface of the drink once he’s taken a long sip and burned his tongue in the process, too eager to wait for it to cool any longer. “I liked them. I wanted to wear them again.”  
“You crushed them when you were sleeping,” Caspar points out. “But I knew you’d want to keep them, so I put them in your book.”

Linhardt’s book is a battered and frankly ancient thing, an annotated copy of Culpeper’s Complete Herbal, the pages worn and faded, with scraps of paper and magazine cutouts paperclipped and carefully glued in by members of his family from years gone by. It’s maybe the oldest and most valuable thing they own, and Linhardt presses flowers in it from their travels, dried and wrapped neatly, to preserve for decades to come. These days, when he opens it, sometimes a petal or a page flutters to the ground, but the thing is at least a hundred years old. “Nothing is permanent,” he tells Caspar, when the page on dittany or fleabane comes tumbling out, and has to be delicately reattached, all out of order. Linhardt remembers his great-grandmother poring over the book in her kitchen, and thinks she’d probably turn in her grave if she could see it now. 

He opens it to the page Caspar has marked with a scrap of paper, yesterday’s date scrawled on it in pencil. The daisies are there, hardly even creased, and neatly placed near the spine, just the way he taught him to press them. “You did them really nice, Cas,” he murmurs, a smile playing at his lips as he sips his coffee. “I didn’t think we’d be able to save them after we got them all messed up.”  
Caspar shrugs. “You were sleeping for a long time. I had time to kill.”  
“I did wake up first!” Linhardt is quick to defend himself, grinning now. “You were on top of me. And it was cold, and early, because somebody has a personal vendetta against blankets at night.”  
Caspar sticks out his tongue. “You don’t need blankets. I’m warm.”  
“You’re also very short and my feet get cold.”  
“Hey!” 

Linhardt sees the fragment of twig that comes flying towards him and ducks out of the way. It hits the wall, bounces off, and promptly disappears into the general clutter and debris that makes up the little space they have in the van. Any space that isn’t taken up by the bed, or the front seats, or the tiny counter, hosts shelves and cabinets, or floor scattered with loose shoes, hair ties, discarded shirts. The guitar that neither of them can play takes up far too much space, but it was Caspar’s brother’s, and Linhardt wouldn’t ever suggest getting rid of it. 

There’s always someone who can play it around the campfires, after all, even if it’s almost never in tune, and gets more covered in dirt and paint by the day, and it could really use new strings that they could probably afford if they wanted to, but it’s hardly a priority when there are other things to while away the hours. Nobody cares when night falls and a song joins the smoke, and rises up into the starlit sky.

When Linhardt has finished his coffee, he puts his cup aside and pulls on clothes, faded pants and a shirt that’s too big - probably Caspar’s, but they’ve been on the road for so long that it doesn’t seem to matter who originally owned their clothes. Everything is a little worse for wear than it was when they set out, but they find they don’t mind so much when they’re together all the time. Linhardt picks at the loose threads on the hem of the shirt, and when Caspar opens his arms to him, he tumbles into his lap to avoid the morning dew, even though it’ll be dry in a mere matter of time. 

The morning creeps above the treeline, and soaks them in sunlight for the first time that day, warming Linhardt’s bare feet in place of their little dying campfire. They’ll need to take to the road soon, but for now, he’s more than content to bask in the little bit of heat, and in Caspar’s arms, which are tight around his waist. His boyfriend presses kisses to his hair and cheek until he turns his head and meets his lips. 

It’s a lazy kiss, like many they share, slow and decadent all the same. Linhardt thinks he’ll never tire of the feeling of Caspar’s mouth on his, of soft lips and warm tongue and sometimes a little too much teeth when he gets excited, which is often. He’s learned long ago that, given the chance, Caspar will hold him in his lap and make out with him for hours and hours, and honestly, some days that’s all he needs, sleepy kisses that get heated and wet and often culminate in one dragging the other into the camper and closing the doors. That is, if they remember to close the doors, should a passing hiker or curious goat come across their little rolling home. 

Though he’d love nothing more than to kiss Caspar from sun-up to sun-down, Linhardt breaks away in the end. He presses his forehead against Caspar’s, pecks kisses over his stubbled jaw and cups his face in both hands to stroke at his cheekbones. Caspar is giggling all the while, blushing like a teenager, and that wonderful, infectious laugh makes Linhardt laugh too. He throws his arms around his neck and hugs him, and wraps his legs around his waist, and decides that perhaps they can afford a few more minutes of making out in the morning light.

When they do finally come to their senses, and they’ve both had breakfast and Linhardt another cup of coffee, it’s back to the long and winding road. Caspar drives first, so Linhardt curls up in the passenger seat with a blanket and looks out of the window. He points things out as they pass them - a lake with ducks and geese, a flock of birds soaring circles in the sky, an orchard full of early apples. The last causes Caspar to screech the van to a stop and scramble out, and he comes back with an armful of stolen fruit and a grin. The apples are fresh and crisp and taste like late summertime, and if juice drips down Linhardt’s fingers and he only catches Caspar’s eye to lick it off and wink, there’s nobody there to care when his lover pulls over at the side of the road to kiss him.

They roll down the windows and play the Crystals with the volume turned up high, and Linhardt sings as he fills the gas tank and Caspar buys snacks inside. Across the forecourt, another camper pulls in, red and white like a peppermint candy and painted with butterflies and peace signs, and seemingly packed with far more people than should fit inside. They tumble out all laughs and smiles, led by a tall man with flowing red hair who waves at Linhardt like they’re best friends. Out here, they might as well be. Following him are two girls, a blonde and another redhead, in matching floral dresses and sunglasses, and behind them another man, shorter, sporting round glasses and a Beatles-esque haircut and a shy smile. The girls run over just as Caspar returns from inside the store, and tucks himself under Linhardt’s arm.

“Hi!” the redhead chirps. “Ferdinand wants to know if you’re heading to Kirsten Farm.”  
Linhardt raises an eyebrow. “We’re not heading anywhere in particular. Just enjoying the path less taken, you understand.”  
“Of course! But Kirsten Farm isn’t far from here, and we’ve arranged a little get-together,” she continues, seeming unperturbed by his lack of enthusiasm. “Some friends, music, food and drinks, out in the fields. We have the farmer’s permission! His son used to travel with us.” She’s giggling, swinging the hand that’s entwined with the blonde’s. 

“I don’t think we-” Linhardt starts to speak, but stops when Caspar tugs at his sleeve, and he realises his lover’s eyes are shining. “Really? You want to go?”  
“I’d _love_ to go,” Caspar whispers. “Isn’t this what we’re out here for, Lin? Community, friendship? Meeting people like us?”  
 _I thought we were out here for love,_ Linhardt wants to say, but bites his tongue. If Caspar wants to go with these strangers to a party, which is what it sounds like, then he’ll go. He wants to make him smile, after all, because Caspar’s smiles are worth thousands, every single one of them.

“Alright, I suppose it won’t hurt to come up for a night,” he sighs, and both Caspar and the redheaded girl beam at him.  
“Perfect! I’m Annie, this is Mercie, and the boys are our friends. We’ll let them know you’re following us up, okay?”  
“Okay!” Caspar sounds just as excited as she does, and that’s how Linhardt knows he’s made the right decision. This whole trip, the escape, the return to nature and to peace and love… it had all been for Caspar, to begin with. Just because he quite likes it now too is no reason for Linhardt to say no to anything. And besides, nothing says freedom and anti-capitalism than an illicit party in the rolling hills of heaven-knows-where. 

They haven’t seen a map in weeks, after all. 

Caspar tosses the girls a couple of their stolen apples, still grinning, and Mercie breaks into a smile for the first time as she thanks him and bites into it. Juice drips down her chin, just as it did to Linhardt only an hour before. She squeals, and Annie laughs, and kisses her red-painted lips. 

Linhardt thinks perhaps this won’t be so bad. 

They follow the candy-striped camper up a hillside, windows rolled down all the way so the countryside breeze can ruffle Caspar’s hair as it’s his turn to sit in the passenger seat. Linhardt’s the better driver anyway, so he navigates the tight turns with ease and flips their new friends the bird when they brake sharply and almost run him off the road. He’s _so_ going to yell at their driver when they reach the campsite, or so he thinks until they’re parked up and he realises their driver is the owlish, blinking boy with the glasses, and yelling at him would be sort of like yelling at a kitten. Useless, but more importantly, just plain mean. 

Caspar helps Ferdinand put up tents, which is somewhat amusing to watch, because the canvas and poles seem determined to collapse under any kind of pressure, and the weather has been hot enough to bake the ground hard. There’s something to be said for the sight of Caspar, shirtless in the sun and aggressively hammering small metal pegs into the dirt, and Linhardt has to excuse himself to the nearby stream to regain his composure under the guise of filling their canteens with fresh water. When he’s splashed himself liberally and thus considerably cooled off, he returns to find more people have arrived - a tall, thin man who’d look more at home on a motorcycle than in a field, Linhardt thinks; a broad-shouldered blond who introduces himself immediately as Raphael Kirsten, the farmer’s son, and claps Linhardt so hard on the back he feels winded for a moment; two more men, one thin and fair, one large and dark-skinned with white hair, building a fire out of sticks and newspaper. 

Linhardt is hit with a sudden wave of feeling like he’s _home._ All of these people… they’re like them. Runaways, renegades, all searching for something more. For freedom, love, an adventure, the thrill of the open road and the hills and skies ahead. He and Caspar have camped with others before, but they’ve always kept themselves to themselves. It’s never been like this, strangers working side by side to build a camp and share the little they have with one another. 

When the tents are pitched and the fire burning merrily in the middle of it all, picnic rugs and blankets are dragged from cars and vans to make a small, disorganised sort of cluster in the middle of it all, and Linhardt finds himself reunited with Caspar. He kisses him hello, nuzzling close for a while, whilst a pot of water sits close to the flames, warming water for the special mushroom tea he makes. They’re not the only ones kissing - free love, after all, he thinks, watching Annie and Mercie through the licking, climbing fire. Someone passes around a lit joint, which he accepts with a grateful smile, and he and Caspar share for a moment. He even lets Caspar blow smoke into his mouth before kissing him, a trick he usually hates, but it feels different with an audience. Ignatz claps, and Raphael offers to try it with him, but it just ends in them both collapsing in choking laughter and drinking heavily from glass jars of Raphael’s home-brewed moonshine. Caspar has a taste of the alcohol, too, and likes it perhaps too much for someone as small as he is. He lies in Linhardt’s lap for a while, whining.  
“Linny… why am I dizzy?”  
Linhardt laughs at him, and silences him with a kiss. “Because you’re half Raphael’s size, and yet you drank just as much as him, and you and I don’t drink nearly so regularly as most people do.” They have their own poisons, after all. He stirs his tea as it heats up in the pot. Caspar will sober up - he always does. Linhardt uses the cap off of one of their canteens to drip water into his mouth so he doesn’t have to sit up just yet. 

They talk for hours, amongst themselves and with their new friends. Dimitri spots the old guitar, and his smile lights up when Linhardt tells him he can go and get it. To everyone’s surprise, he hands it to Dedue, who softly strums out Otis Redding, and the Foundations, the latter of which Mercie sings along to with a voice like she was born and raised in a church choir. As dusk settles around them and the stars come out, they all share a simple meal cooked in the campfire, and Linhardt and Caspar switch places so Linhardt can lie where he feels safest, right between Caspar’s thighs. He sips tea, and they smoke, and he watches the sparks rise up and become the stars themselves. 

“It’s pretty,” he murmurs, raising a hand as though he could catch the stars in long fingers, keep them held in his palms. “I’d give them all to you. Forever.”   
The stars warp and twist into constellations and spirals before his eyes. If he pokes them with a finger, they ripple, like the light on the reflection of a pond as blue as Caspar’s eyes. 

Someone’s voice drifts along the breeze. “If you look up to the sky, you can see them. Perseus and Andromeda, the lovers.”

Linhardt smiles dreamily. “That’s us, Cas. Lovers. I’m gonna put us up in the stars, see.” 

The story continues. “Andromeda was chained to a rock, as a sacrifice to a sea monster, because her mother spoke too highly of her beauty, and the monster was sent to destroy their city. But Perseus was captivated by Andromeda, and he slew the monster when it came, and asked for her hand in marriage, and swept her away.”

“You swept me away too,” Linhardt murmurs. “Showed up in your stupid clothes and said, Lin, we gotta buy a van and get away. We can be like… Percy and whats-her-name.”  
“Perseus and Andromeda.” Caspar sounds far away, and his face has become the sky, his eyes the stars. Perhaps it isn’t Caspar. Perhaps it’s the gods, looking down on him.

“Perseus and Andromeda are together to this day,” the storyteller’s voice continues. “Spinning and spinning, around and around the celestial north pole.”

Linhardt closes his eyes, and behind his eyelids, he and Caspar spin too. 

**Author's Note:**

> hey, I hate this, but sometimes you have to write things you hate in order to break your writer's block.  
> shoutout to samson, ceo of weed linhardt.  
> to marty for letting me know british has been legalized.  
> to smooth and mo for fielding my dumb questions like "what do americans call a rizla"
> 
> thank u and goodnight


End file.
